My Killer Vacation(5)

“You were pretty distracted,” Jude says, patting me on the back, but keeping his attention on the officer. “So we weren’t the first to discover that little bonus amenity?”

Wright shook his head. “The girl who found them called her father. Big, long-haul trucker type. Well he showed up pissed as hell, understandably, but instead of calling the police, he had his daughter call the owner and bring him over. The father got a few punches in before we arrived to break it up. The girls agreed not to press charges as long as they got a refund and no assault charges were filed against the father. But StayInn.com was contacted about this by Barnstable PD. You should have been informed.”

“Yes, we should have.” Mentally, I’m already writing a stern email to StayInn.com. It might even include a few choice words, like emotional trauma and legal counsel…and account credit. “Did they actually catch Oscar looking through the holes?”

“No.” Wright chews on the next part before spitting it out. “But there was a camera. Set up on a tripod.”

Without looking at my brother, I know our faces are identical with disgust.

Shaking off the chill it gives me to know a man had been spying on women illegally in this house—and I was about to embark on six days here—I go back to finding an explanation. “I guess the altercation with the angry dad explains the bruises on Oscar’s face, but the father of those girls didn’t murder him, right? Oscar was alive when the whole situation was resolved?”

Wright shrugs. “My lieutenant thinks the father was still revved up after all was said and done. Came back to finish the job. Homeowner gets his ass kicked by one suspect, then winds up getting killed by another? In the same damn week? Nah. We don’t believe in coincidences. Not that big.”

“Yeah, except…”

Something about the scenario is bothering me, though. Not sitting quite right. And I really, really should just stop trying to fit everything together neatly when nothing about this is neat or tidy, but I’ve always had a hard time leaving puzzles unfinished. However, usually my puzzles come with five thousand pieces, not peepholes and bullet wounds.

Still, my inquisitive nature is the only thing I inherited from my parents. I definitely wasn’t born with an ounce of their courage. A fact that they’ve lamented several times over the years, patting my hand and giving me forced smiles.

That’s our little schoolteacher. Always playing it safe.

Jude has been surfing in Indonesia. Skydiving in Montana. He works in an animal sanctuary, mostly with the pandas, but sometimes he actually feeds lions. There is a video of him online actually cuddling one of the big cats. Like, rolling around in the grass with the giant creature while he laughs and scrubs the lion’s mane. I almost dropped dead when someone emailed it to me. Of course, no one even thought about consulting Jude’s big sister about the whole dangerous business, but I’m not salty about it anymore. Mostly.

So, okay. Courage is not something I have in large supply. This vacation is one of the most adventurous things I’ve done in a while. I actually had to chew on a throw pillow when I clicked “book” on this reservation. But something happened inside of me when I walked into the laundry room and saw poor Oscar staring blanky into space.

Or rather…nothing happened.

The world didn’t end, despite the terrifying circumstances.

I stayed standing, right there on my own two feet. Maybe now…I’m curious about what else I can do. Maybe I’m curious if I can help. Be brave like my parents and Jude. Or the hosts of Etched in Bone, who infiltrate the scenes of the small-town murders they investigate, asking the tough questions. Can I be brave like that? Am I braver than I’ve always thought?

Jury is still out, But I do have a super strength and it involves overthinking everything to death. Which is what I am doing now. Gnawing on the facts…and finding the plot holes. Perhaps this is not my job, maybe I should focus on finding us another place to stay, but I can’t help but feel personally involved, having been the one to discover Oscar’s body. I found him. And while it sounds crazy, I feel a certain responsibility toward holding the murderer accountable and completing this puzzle. I’m not sure I can move on from this whole ordeal until the lid has been properly sealed on the facts.

“Officer Wright—”

A wail of grief rattles the windowpanes, followed by a shout of denial. “No! Not my brother! Oscar? Oscar!”

Jude and I blink at each other and whip around to face the open front door. At the open doors of the ambulance, a woman collapses into the arms of an emergency medical technician, her head thrown back in a howl of anguish. A voice crackles over the radio attached to Wright’s shoulder. “Yeah, we’ve got the vic’s sister here. Can someone send down the social worker?”

“Oh no.” The tip of my nose begins to burn and I reach for Jude’s arm without thinking, squeezing. “That poor woman. She’s just lost her brother. Can you imagine what she’s feeling?”

The officer in front of us grunts. “She’s probably going to feel a lot different when she finds out what he’s been doing.”

“Confused, maybe. But still sad,” Jude mutters, falling back against the cushions, visibly exhausted. Poor baby never got to finish his nap. I need to find him a safe bed for the night.

“Yes,” I agree with my brother. To Wright, I ask, “Are you positive Oscar is the peeper, though? The holes—”